


we, still here

by ethia



Series: all this that is more than a wish [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Marking, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, PWP, S03E02 Nothing To Hide, Season/Series 03, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3415907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethia/pseuds/ethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's weakness, Harold knows, to give in to John, injured as he is, but he isn't thinking clearly, couldn't honestly be expected to when John is so utterly, gloriously aroused by him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we, still here

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I still don't own the boys.
> 
> Title kinda sorta taken from Fallulah's Give Us A Little Love (which is a wicked cool song, go check it out if you don't know it already).

It's another time, it's another day  
Numbers they are new, but it's all the same   
Running from yourself, it will never change   
If you try you could die

 

– Fallulah, _Give Us A Little Love_

 

+++

 

 

Clean-up is part of the job; mostly, Harold has people for it, like he has people for most of everything, but this, this is personal, and not so easily discarded.

 

His head throbs, particularly with the crouching part, the sweeping up of the shards on the ground. He distracts himself by calculating vectors for individual bits and pieces, strewn this way and that as the blasted thing splintered on the back of his skull. The pain grows dull and fades into almost nothing as he keeps working; he has a knack for that, by now, riding the fine line of pushing his aches to the background where they may lurk as they will, without noticeably impairing the clarity of his senses, or the integrity of his thoughts.

  

By the time John arrives with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Harold has restored some measure of order. Bear prances about him until he receives a hearty rub to his flank; John is masking his injury well, but Harold has become an expert on pain, can read it in the awkward angle of John's arm, sees it hidden in the slight asymmetry of his stance.

 

“How did it go at the hospital?” he asks, limping over, and John lets him hover close, not resisting as Harold takes the bag from him, even letting him tug off his jacket, malleable under Harold's gentle approach.

 

 “Cracked a rib, just like I thought,” John says, one hand curled lightly about Bear's head, his own head dipped slightly, bringing Harold almost eye to eye with him. “The doc's been good about dosing me up, too.”

  

“Did you drive here?” Harold can smooth out most of the sharpness in his voice, but not all of it, not that lingering trace of I really hope you didn't endanger yourself so needlessly. John tips his face a little closer, unfazed, his breath warm on Harold's skin.

  

“Shaw dropped me off. Kicked up one hell of a fuss about the detour, though.” The corners of his mouth lift, the briefest flicker of amusement. Harold raises a hand to John's waist and begins to work his shirt free, the motion slow and halting, so John can stop him, if he wants to. He doesn't, lets Harold inspect the damage instead, wincing at Harold's sharp intake of breath, and again when Harold's fingers trace the outline of the bruise that spreads across John's side, a vivid smudge of purple right under his skin. Harold spans the width and length of it; his palm isn't big enough to blot it out completely.

  

“It's nothing,” John says, withdrawing, and Harold lets his hand fall away, defeated. Some days, he feels like he must despair of it, that strange detachment John seems to harbor for his body, as though being shot means nothing to him, just another addition to his vast and varied collection of physical injuries.

  

You would be gone if not for that vest, Harold wants to say; he heaves a sigh instead, then gives a small nod. There's nothing he can do, now, but he will buy another vest, and another, and others after it until that day when someone will aim where John is unprotected, all their luck, their _nearlies_ spent.

  

“Are we staying?” he asks, softly, around that vast gaping ache of you could be dead tonight, slanting his eyes toward their overnight bag as though John didn't bring it here for that very reason.

  

“If you don't mind,” John says, one shoulder raised in a half-shrug. John would like to, Harold knows; he has shown a marked preference for this safe house, with its industrial interior, the walk-in shower and the queen-sized bed that quite comfortably fits two.

  

“All right, then.”

  

John doesn't kiss him, not really; he merely leans in, their mouths close enough for them to share heat and air, their noses brushing.

  

“Do you need help setting things straight here?” he murmurs, his fingers trailing a pattern on the small of Harold's back.

  

“I'm actually almost done,” Harold says, and takes a real kiss from John, a brief fusion of soft skin and enticing warmth, John's hand tightening deliciously on his back.

  

“Almost meaning I could grab a quick shower?” John is running his hand up the length of Harold's spine, firm enough to rub away at the tension there, making Harold hum with the sensation.

  

“By all means.” And he gasps under the sturdy, warm pressure of John's fingers on the back of his neck, the knead and rub of his thumb over the tightly knotted muscle there. He lets his head drop to John's shoulder with a soft sigh, fitting his mouth to John's skin just above the collar of his shirt.

  

“I'll just be a minute,” John says, splaying his fingers into the short hair at the nape of Harold's neck, all careful pressure, subtly seeking, and Harold huffs out a laugh before he steps back, his mouth twitching at the unrepentant look on John's face.

  

“I'm fine, too, John,” he says. “He's mostly bruised my pride.”

  

John doesn't seem entirely convinced but acquiesces easily enough, bending to retrieve a change of clothes from among their combined necessities. He moves slower than usual, each motion carefully measured, favoring his right side as he disappears into the bathroom.

 

Harold has time enough to make Bear hunt after his favorite squeaky toy a few times and finish a quiet cup of tea before the padding of John's bare feet on the floor alerts him to his return. He's changed into a shirt and sweatpants, his hair still wet, his t-shirt damp in places, mostly on the left side where his injury wouldn't permit him to reach without considerable discomfort. His smile is crooked as he crosses the space between them, his sultry gaze on Harold, the slow press of his body determined as he pins Harold under his weight, trapping him against the kitchen counter. He kisses Harold with a fierce hunger, tongue pushing into his mouth insistently, licking at his palate until Harold quivers with it.

 

Harold runs his hands under the cotton of John's shirt, delighted by the way John shivers under his palms, the smooth heat of his skin as addictive as John's low, guttural moans, drawn from him with each sweep of Harold's hands over the broad expanse of his back. John doesn't allow for even the smallest sliver of space between them, pushing as close as he possibly can, moving back only far enough for Harold to slide his hand between them and down, past the waistband of John's pants.

  

John hardens quickly in his hand, growing full and hot and stiff under the incessant slide of Harold's palm, grunting as he rolls his hips into Harold's grip.

  

“I want you to fuck me,” John grates into his ear, his fingers digging into the muscle of Harold's ass, pulling him in. "I want you close, Harold. Want to feel you, everywhere."

  

He's alive with need and desire, thrumming with it wherever they're touching, not quite so indifferent to his brush with death after all. Harold feels an answering need, like a live wire between them, a bone-deep longing to touch and hold and be connected, pry each other apart with hands and mouths, even the smallest space thoroughly uncovered. But he shakes his head no, shuddering when John nips at the lobe of his ear then sucks it into his mouth, rolling it against the tip of his tongue, over and over, making Harold buck his own hips in pure instinctual reflex.

  

“John, no,” he breathes out, harshly. “I'd hurt you, inadvertently, I could--”

  

“I won't break, Harold.” John is panting in his ear, arching his hips into Harold, rubbing the length of his cock into the curl of Harold's palm, slow and lewd. “Come to bed, we'll think of something.”

  

It's weakness, Harold knows, to give in to John, injured as he is, but he isn't thinking clearly, couldn't honestly be expected to when John is so utterly, gloriously aroused by him.

  

In the end, he makes John sit with his back against the headboard, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other propped up for Harold to lean into as he crouches between John's thighs. There's a faint trace of soap lingering on the inside of John's thigh, but Harold's licks it off, laps at the hot, silky skin until all he can taste is musk and salt and _John_ , sharp and real and reassuringly familiar as Harold sucks him into his mouth.

  

John groans, thighs trembling as he fights the instinct to move, one hand curled about the curve of Harold's shoulder, reeling him in, the other stroking idle paths through his hair and down the nape of his neck, feather-light, the barest of touches.

  

They haven't done this often, and so it doesn't take long for Harold to make John fall apart, his hips stuttering up into the steady suction of Harold's mouth, the tight grasp of his fingers around the base of John's cock, the press and slide of his tongue over the length of him. Harold moves his free hand to the crease of John's thigh, drags it along the silken skin there, down and under the warm weight of John's balls.

  

John gasps sharply, his hips bucking, his fingers clenching on Harold's shoulder, pressing deep, and Harold glories in that small spike of pain. He repeats the motion, one long, slow deliberate stroke of his finger, pairs it with a low humming sound around the head of John's cock, and John curls into him, his whole body tensing with pleasure. Later, John will fret over the traces of plum and rust on Harold's skin, the transient imprints he left in his abandon, but Harold will cherish them, will remember this moment and the way John shudders under him, completely unraveled, completely his.

  

Harold lets John fill his mouth before he swallows, savoring the tangy taste, gently working his mouth and tongue around him until John cords his fingers through his hair, coaxing him away. He cants his hips into the mattress once for the small relief it brings to his own throbbing erection, then lets himself be guided up by the tug of John's hands on his shoulders.

  

John cradles him close once Harold has raised himself to his knees, and that's all it takes, the lazy slant of John's mouth over his own, to make Harold acknowledge his own desire, the burning urgency of it, his body flush with John's, all pliant heat for Harold to push into. He pauses for the length of a rushed breath, hesitant to be this selfish, to take something for himself when this was meant for John; Harold's always been better at giving than receiving, and John so rarely asks anything for himself. But then John moves under him, his whole body reaching up and toward Harold, shattering his resolve, breaking his restraint. With a strangled whimper he grabs John's head and angles it back, for once having the advantage of height over him, lapping at John's lips, moaning when John parts his mouth for him, letting Harold in.

  

“Touch me, John,” Harold gasps, pressing close, grunting when John fits his hand around him, pulling hard, his knuckles digging into the soft flesh of Harold's belly as he moves.

  

“Anything you want, Harold,” John says against his mouth, “I'll give you everything.”

  

“You already have,” Harold breathes, John's heartbeat drumming steadily against his chest, his arm strong and warm where it rests over the small of Harold's back, holding him lightly, anchoring him, and Harold couldn't possibly want for more than this.

  

He moves restlessly, lost in the slide of his skin against John's, the friction of John's fingers around him, the crease of his thumb rubbing over the underside of his cock with each thrust, maddeningly good. John whispers in his ear, a low, sultry offering, make me feel you inside me, Harold, but he shakes his head, desperate, clutching at John's shoulders, too far gone already.

  

“This is good, John,” he rasps, in between open-mouthed kisses. “It's good. It's good.”

  

And John lets him have his way, of course he does, lets Harold guide his mouth to the side of his neck, yielding to the insistent pressure of Harold's hand on the back of his head. Harold moans when he sucks there, a deep, unrestrained sound, and he clutches John closer, his fingers threaded tightly through John's hair.

  

“Yes,” he hisses, straining his neck toward John, his climax crashing over him as John sucks hard enough to seal the shape of his mouth to Harold's skin in a smudge of vivid purple.

  

John keeps kissing him lightly as he calms down, his body sagging into John's embrace, utterly spent.

  

“The next time we're back in the library, Harold, will you slide down your collar for me?”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“Just for a glimpse.” John traces a finger along Harold's neck, his touch light and lazy. “I could make it worth your while.”

  

“Is that right.”

  

Harold lets himself be swept up by John's easy laugh, vibrant and blissfully alive, and kisses him through a smile, his hand resting protectively over John's side, where today's bruise will soon fade, another nearly forgotten in time.

  

 

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> * Series title taken from Metric's Ending Start; a collection of odds and ends inspired by season 3. I'm only two episodes in, so it'll be slow going.


End file.
